15.1.12

we are two people in a single bed, lying to ourselves and saying that it's comfortable. we wake up in the morning full of backaches and smiles. he has discovered that, perfectly positioned, his face can make fart sounds in my armpit. we laugh and laugh. we make eggs, toast, tea. we wake up slowly, me more so than him, and he reminds me that, in the morning, I constantly look like a cat who has found a stash of catnip. and I do.

he puts on music and I dance, awkwardly, unabashedly. there is no reason to be nervous or embarrassed, even in the most ridiculous moments. there never has been. he lets me know that I am silly, hangs his head in faux incredulity, smiles faintly. I kiss his cheeks, freshly-shaven. we are happy.

there is so much snow. I was going to go back to my apartment. I was going to shower, to clean, to lead a productive day. we sit and read. we watch dr. strangelove. we look out the window. more snow. we prepare canned vegetable soup ("I ate so much of this in college. my bloodstream must've been full of sodium") and grilled cheese ("I wish I had nice cheese to make fancy grilled cheese." "maybe if you mixed the mexican cheese and the cheddar together, it would seem like it?") and he shows me how to use non-stick spray. we talk about foods we never ate growing up; foods we ate too much of growing up. we talk about growing up.

our families are startlingly similar in some ways, but different enough to keep talking about. both sets of our parents are divorced. we each have a parent with too many siblings. we each understand the kind of upbringing the other had, why it makes us the way we are, why we have not had a fight in the four months we've been dating. why we will not have fights. (hopefully.)

we sit on the couch together and read. every once in a while one will reach over to touch the other's knee, arm, thigh, hand. sometimes we make eye contact and kiss. sometimes I lean on his shoulder. sometimes he leans on mine. we are quiet. we are happy.

tomorrow we will sit on the couch and read the new york times. he will take the news. I will sift through, finding whatever grabs my attention, less dedicated with keeping up with anything. I will not have showered in 36 hours and he will not mind, or at least not let on. he will have showered twice since I came over. I will not have left the night before, partially due to the snow, partially due to laziness, mostly due to the fact that I don't feel like going back without him. but I will need to go back to take that shower.

we will leave, come back to my place. our friends will be there, as they always are, watching football and cooking and laughing. we will read a little more, I will pretend to watch football, he will add clothes to my pile and I will do laundry and try to clean. we will talk about books and complain about having to go back to work ("the weekends go too quickly." "everything goes too quickly").

but for now, we are on his couch, reading. everything is quiet. the apartment is cold but we make each other warm. we are happy. we are happy. I am happy.